LEGACY
Greg Kemp
No one can truly know the life lived
by the lines or curve of a face,
yet the eyes can tell a story
that one perhaps glimpses a summary.
The bright joyful eyes of a child
sings the endless hymn of living,
of the playful dance on this earth,
leaping ahead into a golden future.
Behold a mother’s eyes,
witness to poverty, violence, indifference,
knowing the world will not change
to lovingly welcome her daughter.
She cannot protect this child’s heart
from the cruel world she will enter
when prematurely cast into adulthood
as an unprepared wife and mother.
The ache of this mother’s heart
realizes her indigenous feminine road
will be filled with searing abuse
in the desert void of opportunities.
This youthful heart looks ahead to servitude
in a world closed to her aspirations,
denying her divine birthright
that will steal her dignity.
Not to harness the human potential
of such a heart and mind
and to imprison this life
is a tragic loss for all of humanity.
I weep for those innocents,
lamenting the legacy of patriarchal abuse
and the systematic feminine enslavement
that has brought such misery.
I work and pray for a better road
that women and mothers will walk,
where one day these sad eyes
will look ahead with a joyful anticipation
of future days filled with bright promise.
******
THE OLD STORYTELLER
(OR WHY I WRITE)
Cata Low
They’ve been whispering in the dark for a while now.
They’ve been quietly gaining strength in their numbers.
They’re building up pressure, and they want out.
They’re circling, and closing in on me.
But it’s not a hostile takeover.
It’s not a projectile purge.
It’s a silent sweet and salty sweat that’s
seeping out and staining paper.
They know it’s time to stop drifting and circling
randomly in the dark confines.
They know they need to see light before my eyes don’t.
They know they need a home before I leave mine.
Even though some of them are rowdy and raw,
they are actually quite courteous.
They come out one by one, in the intuitive order
of wild things, and they let me
dust them off a little, to make them ready
for their first moments of freedom.
They’re grateful.
They know that they’ll be given a consecrated space
to be received correctly and
offer their essence.
Even though a lot of them think of themselves
as ugly outliers, they know they
carry a hidden jewel.
And they know that like me, someday the form they take
will fall away too, but
that their spirit will shape shift through a new host
into a new story for a new
and different time.
They’ve been around long enough to know that.
That’s why they’re ready now.
******
IN PASSING
Jim McLaughlin
Marching on, or dragging by so slow,
Great healer and destroyer, both;
Unyielding force, eternal flow,
Sworn enemy of wasteful sloth.
The progress of a shadow cast,
Describes your creeping forward roll;
A moment now, forever past,
Recorded by a distant toll.
Despised by lovers as you fly,
And those who once were fair of face;
The common name we know you by
Is Time, still moving on apace.
******
THE FACTUAL
Don Beaudreau
The blush of the first dandelion
Dies in late frost,
Unexpected harbinger of the factual.
You, so young and expectant
Will lie down with that golden head,
Broken, blood frozen.
And nature and I,
Absolute and one,
Will weep for the beauty and the loss.
But before the flower
Can even imagine
A demise formulated by fact;
Before youth and promise
Dare fear unity with what once was:
Cold moon, cruel desert,
Nature and I
Will rejoice in the present;
Confident that nothing ever can really be lost.
******
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After he retired and moved to Sedona, Arizona, he taught literature at Yavapai College in Clarkdale, Arizona.
He and professional artist Bev Kephart bought a small motor home in 2003, sold most of their possessions, and traveled the U. S. for seven years. After visiting Mexico several times, they settled in the village of Ajijic, joining the ex-pat artist and writing communities.
Mel’s writing has been published online and in print in The United Kingdom, The United States, Mexico, New Zealand, and Australia. He is the author of three novels, a book of short stories, and several books of poetry. He and his wife now make their home in the village of San Nicholas de Ibarra.
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